


The Day the Music Died

by Etheostoma



Category: V for Vendetta (2005), V for Vendetta - All Media Types
Genre: Blatant musical metaphors, Character Study, Gen, Post-Movie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 13:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13637370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etheostoma/pseuds/Etheostoma
Summary: His song was of change, was a vendetta against all that had been done against him, and against the world. It ended when he died. Drabble.





	The Day the Music Died

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Fanfiction.net October of 2008. Edited slightly for grammar and a few typos but otherwise in its original form.
> 
> I'm working on transferring some of my older stuff over here, and I had honestly forgotten I'd even written this little drabble. I rather liked it upon rediscovery, though, so here we are!

He was the composer, the maestro, performing his piece before the entire world. He was the orchestra, gliding the bow across the strings, producing saccharine and callous sounds; he was the brass, alternating between harsh phrases and harmonious melodies, always driving, always pushing forward into the next stanza of his piece.

He was the music.

He sang a tune of change, of hope. It was a song of revolution. It was a song of war, and of pain--a song of hope and liberty. This melody rang across London, filling every crevice with the rich tone of the music he played. It swelled with thoughts of anarchy and then was fell into a ritard with the government's rise. He coaxed it into its final climactic crescendo, puntuating the last, tumultuous chords with his beliefs, his plans for a better world even as he brought the current one crashing down around us.

The music is gone now.

The Shadow Gallery—once illuminated by his vibrant presence—produces only echoes of the past. The streets of London are silent. The world is empty without the music, without _V_.

He was the lullaby that could lull me to sleep at night, the classical composition that supported me throughout each day, forming the backbone for all that I knew and believed. He was always there for me, guiding me, helping me. Now it has all changed. There is no more Mozart, no more Tchaikovsky. There is no more V.

He is gone.

There is silence all around. The people of London go about their lives; they don't notice the giant void, the emptiness that emphasizes the fact that _he_ is not here. They do not notice the gaping chasm, devoid of sound, that surrounds the city. I am the only one who can "hear" it. I am the only one who notices the never-ending series of rests, measure after measure of silence punctuated only by the monotonous, percussive heartbeat of daily affairs.

I keep expecting there to be a coda, some unexpected addition to the end of his masterpiece. I keep hoping that he will come back--that the _music_ will come back.

It won't.

That piece is done now, and I know it well. V's work--and V himself--will always be in a class of its own, above the symphonies and concertos of the great. His song was of change, was a vendetta against all that had been done against him--and against the world.

It ended when he died.

There is no changing the fact that V is dead, as much as I wish that there could be. He will never come back. He died, and took the music with him, leaving an empty, soundless world.

The music of V is gone forever. It is up to each and every one of us to make our _own_ music. We can create songs and harmonies that he could not-happiness, joy, _freedom_. V's opuses were merely the prelude, leading up to the main act: today, and tomorrow, and every day of this new, hopeful future for which he fought.

The music died with V that day.

It is our job to bring it back to life.


End file.
